


Virtue has a Veil + Vice a Mask

by lady__sansa_stark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (sorta but not quite lol), Canon-verse (mostly), F/M, Masturbation, Takes place between Feast for Crows and Winds of Winter, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 22:05:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9348476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady__sansa_stark/pseuds/lady__sansa_stark
Summary: Alone at night, Sansa thinks on what Myranda told her earlier about two being better than one.





	

 

_“ **Virtue has a veil, vice a mask.** ”  
– Victor Hugo_

***

            There were times like this when Sansa absolutely despised the way in which little Lord Robert avoided the world. In his childish innocence. In how easy he could be absorbed in the banal stories of winged knights and fair ladies. Sansa saw him as the child he was, and always would be. In truth, the two of them shared a twin pain of loneliness – both of their parents had succumbed to the wicked wiles of Westeros. Both of them now had their futures held firmly in the palm of the Lord Protector.

            Yes, they both suffered, but there was still a nasty sliver of ice towards the young lord that Sansa couldn’t remove. It wedged itself so far deep in her chest, sometimes she wondered if it ever poked through the back of her dresses.

            To the world, Sansa Stark was gone. On the run, or possibly dead. She was forgotten, nothing. Nothing but a brown-haired bastard now.

            Robert Arryn, on the other hand, was still alive. Small and frail and weak in just about every regard, except for his shrill whining. That he managed to expend all of his energy into. The people of the Vale looked at the little lord and counted the small days until he would perish from his illness. Or perhaps from some ill-begotten whims of the Vale lords tired of waiting. And he _would_ perish, one day, Petyr had assured her.

            And when he did, Sansa would take up his high seat in the Eyrie.

            “And the company of winged knights rode back to their brave Lord Robert, prepared to serve and protect him until their years run out,” Sansa concluded.

            They were sat in the inner courtyard of the Gates of the Moon, both bundled against the sudden winds that surged through the Vale. Warnings of the winter to come, she thought. It was hardly _cold_ in the sense that Sansa found it cold – nothing at all like the days she spent in Winterfell, a lifetime ago when Sansa Stark was still alive. Or even those few fortnights in the Eyrie, snow fluttering into her hair as she worked to recreate her home. No, the cold was not something that bothered Sansa. But Robert was too proud to be the only person weighed down in furs, and begged her to wrap up too else he should yell.

            “Again, Alayne, again!” he cried out. His fingers clutched the small wooden carving of a knight with wings on his helm. It was painted, but the colors were faded and chipped with how careless Robert took care of it.

            Sansa shook her head. “I’m afraid that will be the last story for today, Sweetrobin. It’s just about time for supper.”

            At that, Robert threw the knight – it’s top half lodged into the soft earth. Another reason for how shobby the wooden figure looked, despite it being carved only a few moons ago. “No! I want another story _noow_!”

            Some passers-by were staring. The Gates was beginning to grow fuller as the days passed – lords and ladies and knights from all over the Vale, pledging to fight in the tourney to be named Lord Robert’s own entourage of winged knights. Hardly a third of the participants had shown yet, and there was still plenty of things to be done in preparation. Sansa, for the better part, was tasked in keeping Robert busy and away from the construction. Should he be injured – or accidentally run through with a sword – all of Petyr’s plans would fall through.

            “Tonight then, Sweetrobin,” she compromised. “Tonight I’ll tuck you into bed and read you stories of all of your brave knights, so they will protect you as you drift off into sleep.” _Tonight then, I’ll plead for the maester to give the boy another dose of milk of the poppy._

He sniffled. “Do you promise?”

            “Of course, Sweetrobin. I would never lie to someone as strong and brave as you.”

            Robert swung his arms across her neck, though one hand clipped her jaw. Robert had meant to kiss her on the lips, but Sansa deftly sent his mouth colliding with her cheek instead. It was a sloppy kiss. She remembered all the times he would prattle about marrying Alayne. About how his dear Lady mother would’ve wanted that for them. At how no other woman was quite so deserving of the little lordship as she was.

            He was still a child – so young and unaware of the world. Sometimes when that shard of ice dug into her chest, as it was doing now, Sansa couldn’t ignore the grey sort of regret at her constant rejection of the boy. Try as she might, Sansa couldn’t see Robert as her lord husband. Couldn’t see him sitting proudly as Lord of the Vale. Couldn’t picture him in her future – if only because he was never meant to be there.

            Robert jumped down from the carved stone bench they sat upon, picking up his knight. He hadn’t bothered to brush the dirt that wedged itself under the knight’s shield. A small entourage of knights accompanied the maester and two serving girls, prepared to take the little Lord back to his rooms and then to supper. They were a constant in his life – in case he should have an unexpected fit, they were to suppress it. To keep the knowledge of how frail the boy truly was.

            “Don’t forget your promise, Alayne!” he called out. “I’ll see you tonight in my room!” Sansa waved at him until he was out of sight.

            “He’s a bit _young_ , don’t you think?” came a voice behind Sansa. “Although, I’m sure his lands and title make up for however small he might be.”

            Sansa turned – only after that sliver sunk further into her chest, where she tried to desperately to ignore it.

            Leaning against the back of the bench was Myranda. Small and short where Sansa was tall and lithe. But they were fast friends, even if Myranda was the opposite in appearance and personality. Sansa reminded herself that Myranda wasn’t that far opposite from Alayne. Perhaps it was Alayne and Sansa that were two separate people instead.

            Sansa smiled at the girl’s jest. Sometimes, Sansa couldn’t help but see her old friend Jeyne Poole in Myranda, and that only made the twinge of homesickness worse. “Yes, you’re right. Though should I take Robert to bed, I’ll make sure we both return in the morning, unlike _some_ wives…”

            Myranda’s mouth and eyes turned playfully wolfish. “A pity some husbands are not physically capable of _enduring_ their wives in bed.”

            Myranda had never completely divulged to Sansa what exactly happened during her first (and only) marriage. Never completely divulged how a man enters his marriage bed with his wife, and only the wife returns. An _accident_. Or murder, of some sort or another. Either way, it seemed to weigh more heavily upon Lord Nestor Royce, Myranda’s father, than upon his daughter.

            Apart from that one _accident_ , Myranda’s mouth was rather free in divulging nearly everything else.

            For example: “Besides, why would I want to strap myself to the side of a single man when _two_ would be far more exciting.”

            Both Sansa and Alayne blushed at that.

            Myranda’s wolfish grin burst into a rousing laughter. So loud that most people in the courtyard paused to glare at what the girl found so amusing.

            “Oh, Alayne,” she said, rounding the bench and wrapping a soft arm around Sansa’s shoulders. “Trust me when I say that as a bastard, you have fewer expectations about your supposed _virtue_. Any man would be more than happy to marry someone as beautiful as you, regardless of what – or _who_ – you’ve had before.” Myranda patted Sansa’s face, leaving her warm fingers against Sansa’s burning cheek. “Have a bit of _fun_ before tying yourself forever to one man. Try one. Or two.”

            “Try ‘two’ what?”

            Sansa jumped out of Myranda’s embrace. Myranda, on the other hand, laughed – though it was something less raucous as the one before. Something Sansa might have thought to be a half-attempt at ladylike.

            The Lord Protector approached, stopping several feet away as was considered proper. His mossy eyes were shifting between the two girls, head tilted in confusion. A smirk played on his lips. Sansa wasn’t sure how much of Myranda’s _advice_ her father had overheard.

            Although, if Sansa was being fair, such intimate advice was not something she was used to receiving only from Myranda. Her own father’s mouth was often free in giving his daughter advice - especially late in the night, and even more so when there was a goblet of fine wine in his hand and his daughter perched upon his lap.

            Oh yes – such advice was not unheard through the _delicate_ ears of either Sansa Stark or Alayne Stone.

            Sansa saw how Petyr’s eyes were slowly dragging over the warm flush that was plastered over her face. The flush that was beginning to spread down into Sansa’s neck and fingers and toes. She was sure, too, that Petyr had difficulty in pulling his eyes away from that burning _red_. A red Petyr recounted missing dearly in her hideous chestnut curls.

            “It was nothing, father,” she said finally. Myranda was still giggling beside her. “Just a bit of joking between us.”

            “A jest in truth, my lord,” Myranda began, having trouble stifling her persistent giggles. “Though perhaps the Lord Protector might be able to aid at least one of us in our understanding of how two-”

            Sansa jabbed her in the stomach, but Myranda did not relent. Her words were nearly swallowed among her growing laughter. “Oh Alayne, the wonderful thing with _two_ is that the proportion works just as well the other way ‘round.”

            At that, Myranda lost herself in her roaring laughter. At that, Sansa lost herself in the unyielding blush and heat running through her.

            “I…see…,” Petyr said with a chuckle, not entirely sure he understood what was so hilarious. He dragged his eyes away from Sansa to assess Myranda – who was bent over in laughter, trying (though failing) to stifle the unladylike sounds. Sansa noticed, though she couldn’t say why or how she did, that Petyr’s gaze lingered over Myranda’s chest, bouncing in tandem to the girl’s guffaws. Sansa also couldn’t say why or how it turned that wickedly pleasant warm flush in her cold.

            “Is supper prepared already?” Sansa said, hoping to draw her father’s attention back to her.

            “It is. I was on my way to the hall before I spied you two huddled over here in secret. Alas, my curiosity got the best of me. Though I can’t say that it’s been satisfied in the slightest.”

            Petyr finally turned to look at Sansa as he said the last bit, his eyes growing momentarily darker at the utterance of _satisfied_. As though he was fully aware of the implication of _two_ , despite the confused furrow to his brow. As though he was fully aware that the fading flush upon Sansa’s skin was because of some dark, twisted imagination painted in her mind.

            Of course Myranda meant it all in jest. Even as a bastard, Alayne would not stoop to such _depravity_ as taking her own lord father to bed. Such depravity was reserved for the sick-in-mind, and for nobles with coats of red-and-gold.

            Oh, if only the girl knew.

            Myranda was a terrible influence, indeed. But not any worse an influence than the Lord Protector himself.

            Petyr sketched a short bow, motioning for the girls to follow him towards the hall for supper. Sansa linked her arm in Myranda’s: she was warm and loud and managed to contain the roaring laughter into something less boisterous. Before they caught up with Petyr, Myranda leant into Sansa’s side, whispering with a devilish tilt to her words: “Do you think a woman would _need_ two with him? Given how little his finger might be.”

            She fell into another fit of hysterics, painfully loud so close to Sansa’s ear.

            Petyr turned to them, slowing to walk beside Sansa, and the three of them continued in a silence broken only by short bursts of laughter. Sansa thought he might ask what the girl found so impossibly hilarious, but he didn’t.

            Which only made Sansa wonder if the whispered words weren’t nearly as quiet as Myranda meant them to be.

* * *

            Dinner passed by incrementally slowly.

            Sansa boiled it down to two reasons:

            One: Myranda was displaying some sort of affection to the Lord Protector (as Sansa realized for a nearly a fortnight, though had not been able to confirm it with Petyr due to him having been endlessly busy getting Robert’s tourney prepared). It was Myranda’s own form of affection, of course. Of japes and lewd remarks and wearing dresses with incredibly low or tight bodices. Sansa initially thought that perhaps it was Myranda’s attempt at getting back at Sansa for _stealing_ Harrold from her. That in her dashed love, Myranda was now attempting to steal Petyr from Sansa.

            Which was obviously impossible. Petyr Baelish was Alayne’s father – and Sansa made it clear that she found the Lannisters a despicable sort.

            Two: Petyr knew. Or at the least, he pieced together the sort of gossip that sent Myranda into hysterics and Sansa into a full-on maiden’s blush. Sansa knew that Alayne shouldn’t be bothered by such nonsense. Sansa usually wasn’t, not anymore. But there was a line drawn in grey-green that often created cracks in her stony façade.

            She wondered if Petyr might instruct her how to keep the façade from breaking so easily. If he might finally resume their late-night lessons. If he might teach her. Or scold her.

            Sansa was proud at keeping her thrumming heart hidden at the wicked thoughts crawling through her mind.

            But Petyr knew. She saw it in the way that his left hand sat beside his dishes. In the way that his fingers drew lazy circles upon the wooden table. Or fell in a slow trail down the length of the knife. Or pricked at each tong of the fork with a finger.

            They were such _innocent_ actions. Something any of the many of guests filling the hall would have dismissed as nothing. Something that even Myranda, who sat beside Sansa, paid no attention to.

            Sansa was about to disregard it, too. That she was reading far, _far_ too into how his fingers moved – and how they once drew lazy circles and trailed slowly and pricked with nails across her jaw and neck and down beneath her dress. It wasn’t until halfway through the meal that Petyr’s eyes met hers. A moment; less than that. There was the wicked, dark fire burning where the soft moss used to lie. His tongue licked at an errant drop of wine, moving in a slow drag over his top lip while his gaze darted to the expanse of skin at Sansa’s neck. And then – Petyr turned to make conversation with another lord who sat to his left.

            That half-fraction of a moment set embers stoking inside of Sansa. No amount of food or polite conversation kept the insistent smoldering at bay.

            Even now – beneath her furs, staring as the candle upon her nightstand flickered in a pool of its own melted wax – Sansa felt the burning fire persist. She hoped it might fade and she might get a few hours’ sleep. But no matter how long she waited or how high the moon rose in the sky, it continued to burn.

            A part of her always held out to the hope that their night lessons might continue. Petyr had an endless list of errands to run whilst they were still stationed in the Eyrie, so much so that he was away more than he was there. And now, with the tourney preparations in full-swing, Sansa didn’t often see Petyr between the hours of breakfast and supper and the following breakfast.

            Sansa knew it was false hope that kept her awake. That perhaps Petyr might knock at her door, or a servant asking for the Lady Alayne to visit her father on some urgent business.

            A fool’s hope.

            The Gates of the Moon were _small_ , regardless. Small and growing fuller with each passing fortnight. It would be that much harder for her to sneak her way into his chambers. And harder still as the tourney drew nearer.

            Disappointment filled Sansa. Then: shame. A girl should not be disappointed that her father has failed to pay her a _night-time visit_ in months. A girl should not be disappointed at the lack of wicked _lessons_ taught under the guise of a proper education. A girl should not have sinful thoughts about her lord father.

            Petyr Baelish was no more her father than Alayne Stone was his daughter.

            And yet – maybe this odd relationship between them gave it a sliver of normalcy unlike the incestuous depravity of the Lions.

            And yet – Sansa knew that there was nothing remotely normal between the two of them.

            The candle’s fire finally lost the fight against the pool of wax. It flickered out, plunging her room into blues and blacks. Sansa thought she might have heard footsteps – the quiet patter of the Lord Protector’s light steps. The tell-tale rap of his delicate fingers upon her door. And his voice, whispering her name in the softest tone.

            But there was nothing but silence. Nothing but the wicked hope creating noises in the darkness. Nothing but the flickering fire inside her keeping Sansa company this night – and many nights to come.

            Sansa turned onto her back, staring at where the wooden rafters of the ceiling might be. On that dark canvas she saw Petyr’s fingers toying with his silverware. She saw the darkness in his eyes, the fire that was slowly eating at his sanity and control as it had been eating at hers. She saw the back of Petyr’s finely-made doublet as Myranda’s terrible words whispered loudly into her ear.

            Sansa stared into the bleak nothingness of the ceiling as her fingers skimmed across her goosefleshed skin. And she imagined instead Petyr was here – beside her, on top of her, his fingers and mouth a wicked play upon her skin. Light brushes from her neck to her collarbone, trailing slowly to the strap of her nightgown. Dragging it down, revealing her porcelain skin inch by inch. Petyr’s mouth would follow his fingers, placing the softest of kisses from her jaw to her neck to her shoulder.

            His other hand dragged across her leg, trailing up and down, each climb incrementally higher than the last. Incrementally closer to reaching beneath the hem of her gown and towards where she was growing warmer and wetter.

            And then – Sansa felt a third hand, reaching beneath the front of her nightdress to run knuckles up and down her side. There was a second mouth, too, tongue teasing circles around her hardened nipple, lapping closer and closer until finally taking it into his mouth.

            _Two would be far more exciting_. They were Myranda’s words, but it was Petyr’s voice she heard whispering wickedly in her ear.

            Sansa could _feel_ them more than she could see them. Two Petyrs, exploring every inch of her body. Learning where best to touch and taste that sent the fire inside her to a roiling inferno. That sent her mind into a white haze of wicked pleasure. The two Petyrs worshipped her body with their fingers and tongues and teeth.

            “ _Oh, gods_ ,” she moaned as Petyr’s hand finally crept up her leg, running beneath her gown and under her smallclothes. A thumb pressed against her clit, circling it in agonizingly slow motions. She felt the wet press of his tongue dragging over her opening. Felt the slow push of a finger inside her. Another, pumping in and out in the same rhythm as her clit.

            The mouth and hands upon her breasts didn’t relent, either. That Petyr nipped at one breast, running his thumb in circles across the nipple of the other. Both of them moved in the same slow, painfully delicious rhythm. Sansa felt it under her skin and in her blood – that rhythm, fast and hard and hot.

            They moved faster. Sansa’s breaths came out in short, labored bursts. Her vision was filled with the terrible gleam of darkness in Petyr’s eyes and the slow drag of his tongue over his lip and the ministrations of his fingers.

            The Petyr between her legs released his hand and mouth from her. Sansa whined at the loss of his weight and the coldness lapping across her wet opening. And then he was there again: his bare skin, his manhood sliding against her, brushing at her clit. Up and down, up and down. His arms wrapped about her thighs, fingers moving in that same rhythm. Fingers digging hard into her flesh: _mine, all mine_.

            And then, with a heavy moan escaping her lips, Petyr entered her. Stretched her, filled her completely. Perfectly, as though they were made by the gods for each other. He reached up to kiss her lips, to trail them down her neck and nip at that pulse just beneath her ear, before moving inside her.

            She felt him – all of him – focused on her, above her, in her. There was hardly an inch of skin Petyr hadn’t touched or tasted. And if there was, Sansa would let him have the rest of her. Would let Petyr touch and taste and feel and enjoy every last part of her body.

            It wasn’t long before Sansa cried out into the darkness, the name of her father a prayer on her lips.

            Her heart was a painful beat. She felt it in her head and fingers and toes. Mostly, she felt that sinful thrum between her legs, her pleasure running wet down her thighs.

            The darkness wrapped itself around her, easing her into its sweet embrace of sleep. Sansa’s mind was blank as she drifted towards the darkness.

            A knock at her door. A voice: “Lady Alayne, are you awake?”

            It came like a whisper through water. Sansa almost didn’t hear it. Didn’t want to hear it.

            Another knock. “Lady Alayne. Lord Robert requests your presence.”    

            Her eyes flitted open. That beautiful, warm flush that spread through her was fading away. And she detested that. She didn’t want it to go, she didn’t want to leave the darkness that wrapped itself so tightly around her limbs. Nor was Sansa sure she was physically capable of the short trek to Robert’s chambers.

            The stories of winged knights filled the darkness of her head. The _promise_ of lying beside Sweetrobin, whispering those stories of strong and loyal knights before he drifted off the sleep. Sansa berated herself for forgetting to inform the maester to give the little lord his milk of the poppy. She wondered if perhaps it wasn’t too late yet…

            “Lady Alayne.”

            “I’ll be right there,” she called out. Sansa struggled to untangle her limbs from her furs, realizing that somewhere during her pleasure she had lost her smallclothes entirely. Sansa left it lost somewhere in her bed, and retrieved a clean one, along with slippers and her robe. She was mindful enough to dry her thighs and run her fingers through her wild hair before answering the door.

            “Yes, I’ll head to Lord Robert’s chambers immedi–”

            She hadn’t needed the candle casting soft, orange light across his face to know it was her own loving father who stood before her.

            Sansa’s body froze in panic, her mouth hanging open.

            She wondered if he _knew_. If he saw her untidy hair and knew. If he saw the red flush in her cheeks and knew. If he could smell the evidence of what she had just done, on her body and lingering in the room, and _knew_.

            The silence stretched between the two of them, and in it Sansa heard only her frantic heartbeat and the faint wailing of Lord Robert somewhere in the castle.

            And in that awful silence, in the flickering glow of the candle in his hand, Sansa saw the wicked smirk on Petyr’s lips. Saw how night-black his eyes were. Her eyes darted to the floor in embarrassment, and even in the faint light Sansa could see the shape of his arousal.

            Oh yes – Petyr knew full-well what his daughter had just done.

            Sansa hadn’t bothered with any attempt of formalities and pleasantries. Closing the door behind her, she wedged herself between Petyr and the hall, hoping to get out of there with some semblance of her self-respect intact. A hand reached for her arm, and Sansa turned to look at him.

            Petyr leaned in, his lips a hair’s breadth away. Sansa felt a jolt of excitement course through her as his breath fell warmly upon her skin. “You know, Sansa, as much as I _enjoy_ hearing you crying out in pleasure – and _especially_ hearing my name cry out from your pretty lips – it would have felt much better for the both of us had you let me join you.”

            Petyr brushed the length of his body against hers, so desperate to know what the sounds of her pleasure had done to him. So desperate, perhaps, for a bit of release. But he let her go then, strolling forward in a quiet order to follow. Sansa nearly tripped over her feet, so lost in her embarrassment.

            She caught up, a servant passing them by halfway to Robert’s chambers. His wailing grew louder with every step.

            Before they got there, Sansa found a sliver of courage inside her, wriggled free perhaps from her earlier release. She pulled on the collar of Petyr’s robe, careful of the candle in his hand. Her own face was inches from his. “You know, _father_ , if you truly cared about your daughter, you would not have left her waiting and wanting for so long.”

            She heard the smirk on his lips when he spoke: “And if you are as dutiful as you always claim, _daughter_ , then I’m sure you will finish putting Robert to sleep as quickly as possible, and help ease this terrible ache you’ve created in your father’s trousers.”

            Oh, Sansa would be an awful liar if she denied wanting to help her father’s _ache_ here and now, pressed against the wood of Robert’s door. Her cries of pleasure echoing through the Gates, reaching as high as the sparrows littering the empty halls of the Eyrie. All of Westeros would learn of the _depravity_ that ran deep in the veins of a father and his bastard daughter.

            And as much as she saw the same wicked image run its course through Petyr’s mind, she relented until _later_. It would be a painful later, made worse by the sniveling whines of the boy. Made painful by a dull, growing ache between her legs.

            Sansa opened the door to Robert’s room, leaving Petyr waiting and wanting in the darkness.

            But not for long.

**Author's Note:**

> [I hope you liked it!! :D ]


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